


Faster Than Light

by edibleflowers



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are a long time coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faster Than Light

**Author's Note:**

> The title and the lyrics are from the song "Faster Than Light" by Neil Finn, from _Try Whistling This_. For Velma and Alex.
> 
> When I wrote this in 2002, it was a future fic. How times change.

_1\. in time you'll see that some things travel faster than light_

 

When he shows up at your door, it's like time has reversed. For just that first second, it's like the past seven years haven't even happened; then the lines around his eyes and the weatherbeaten quality of his skin register, and everything comes back to normal.

"Chris?" you say, and he laughs, his eyes dancing.

"Jeez, man. You never change. Mind if I come in?"

Looking past him, you see his Harley -- the same one he's had for fifteen years now -- parked on the street, loaded down, and you nod and open the door wider. There's the slightest hesitation as he moves, suggesting some stiffness, maybe a lengthy ride, but he doesn't say anything, just waits until you've closed the door. Then he turns and catches you in a sudden breath-stealing hug. You can't say anything; it's too much, but you hug him back.

"Missed you," he murmurs.

"Missed you, too," you reply automatically, and smile, ruffling his hair as he pulls away from you. He scowls. "Dude. You're here," you say, despite the obviousness of it. You can't get over it.

"Yeah, I, uhh, was nowhere near the neighborhood." You can't remember where he said he was in his last email, but you think it was somewhere in Texas, and that was three months ago. "Anyway, you got something to drink? I'm parched."

"Sure."

You're in the kitchen, perched on stools and sipping at bottles of water, when footsteps thunder down the stairs. Brianna swings into the kitchen and freezes, and then shrieks. "Uncle Chris!"

"Bree!" He grins, opening his arms, and she leaps into them. You can't help but smile to see your little girl in his embrace.

"What are you doing here?" she babbles at him. "I missed you! You're a big meanie. Tell him he's a big meanie, Dad!"

You grin, leaning over to thwap Chris on the shoulder. "See? You disappointed the kid."

"I'm sorry, sweetie, really. Look, I'll take you for a ride on the bike, how's that?" Brianna grins, appeased, and leans against him. "Actually, I kinda have a favor to ask your old man."

You raise an eyebrow at him; he ducks his head, then raises his eyes to meet yours. "I was kind of wondering if I could crash here for a couple months. Be out by September at the latest. I just, you know, I've been driving for a while and..."

"Hey, chill, man." You interrupt him by grabbing his arm and squeezing. "It's fine. I'll go get the guest bedroom made up."

"Yay!" Brianna cheers. "We can go swimming and go to the museums and the zoo and the park and..."

You can feel Chris's smile on the back of your head as you leave the kitchen.

* * *

_2\. close your eyes_

 

After dinner, Chris declares that your cooking has only improved. You roll your eyes and tell him he's only plying you with compliments to get you to cook for him again. He agrees, grinning.

You tell him about your next project: you're due in Toronto later this month for a bit part in a movie, so you'll be gone for two weeks. Chris grins and says, "I showed up just in time, huh?" Brianna pouts -- she was looking forward to being in Toronto with you -- but you like the neatness of it, and you know she won't be too upset because it is, after all, Uncle Chris who'll be looking after her.

Afterwards, you stay up watching television for a while. When Chris goes off to crash, you pick up the phone and call JC.

Of all the guys, you've kept closest to him. Even though he's permanently settled in Orlando -- the freak loves the weather, thus convincing you of his insanity -- you talk to him practically every day, see him at least two or three times a month when business brings him up to New York or you down there. He's happily ensconced in his own studio, though, and loves it.

"Hey, man!" he greets you sunnily.

"Dude," and you grin into the phone. "You'll never believe who showed up on my doorstep today."

"Chris?" JC immediately says, in a tone of voice that suggests it's as likely as having the Easter Bunny appear. You stay silent, and he breaks into surprised laughter. "Holy crap, man, I was just-- Wow, that's awesome. Really, he's there? I was startin' to think we'd never see him again. How is he?"

"Good, he's good. He seems kinda tired. Just wants to stay a few months, like, 'til the end of the summer. Bree's ecstatic."

"I bet. She worships him." JC's voice is soft. "He just showed up, huh?"

"Out of the blue." You've been trying not to think about the implications of that. "Didn't call or anything first."

"I wonder." JC hums.

You scowl at the phone. "Shut up, C. Fuckin' eternal romantic bullshit."

JC laughs. "For someone who's broken so many hearts over the years..."

"Yeah, yeah," you grumble. "Fuckhead. Anyway, I was probably just closest. If he'd been down your way, he'd have been in your hair."

JC is quiet for a moment. Then, "I don't know, man. Don't take this one too lightly, OK? 'S all I'm saying."

You grumble to yourself. JC knows your feelings for Chris all too well; he was the first person you confided in, back in Germany when you'd realized you were crushing on Chris.

The subject changes as JC, sensing your reluctance to discuss things further, begins telling you about the singer he's been working with, and you talk about lighter things for a while. Finally, yawning, you make him promise to come up and visit while Chris is in town -- "It'll be like a mini-reunion or something" -- and then say your goodbyes.

As you climb the stairs to bed, you glance into Brianna's room. The door is open, as always, and the light by her bed glows softly, illuminating her small form beneath the covers. Chris is perched on the bed next to her, and you stop, concealing yourself against the wall, to listen.

He's reading her 'The Princess Bride', you realize after a few sentences; the copy in his hand is an old battered paperback you've had for as long as you can remember. You have to close your eyes. How many times did you watch this on the bus, the five of you or whoever was around, until you could all recite it from memory? And even though the book's not quite the same, it's still something to hear him almost whispering the words to her in his evocative tones.

Finally, he stands, brushing a few dark curls back from her forehead, and snaps off the light. You make no attempt to hide, and he grins at you as he comes out of the room. "Listening in, Fatone?" he whispers.

"You're going to spoil her, you know. I haven't read to her in ages." You bump shoulders with him as you walk down the hall.

"I missed her," he says, pausing with his hand on the doorknob to his room.

"Just her?" You mean it in a joking tone, but he lowers his head for a moment and you feel ashamed. Then he glances up at you again, smiling easily.

"Missed you too, man." He leans up to kiss your cheek, and then slips into his room.

It takes you a while to fall asleep. You realize you're listening for the sound of him breathing before you finally relax into slumber.

* * *

_3\. do you hear what I'm thinking_

 

It's strange, but having Chris there seems to make you realize how much you missed him. He'd been on the road for well over a year, probably closer to a year and a half, checking in with the rest of you infrequently at best. Though he's always been a computer guy and the kind of person who loved his gadgets -- surmounted perhaps only by Lance for the number of Palm Pilots and cellphones owned -- he still likes to control the level of contact when possible, and so you learned not to send too many emails, leave too many voicemails, because it would only lengthen the gap between responses.

You knew he was holding the rest of you at arm's length. You didn't really blame him; from the first, when the group was placed in a house in Orlando and forced to live out of each other's pockets, the five of you have been close, and that closeness grew to a level where you were all so inextricably entwined that it felt like one person in five bodies. You could finish each others' sentences; you knew what Justin would have in his pockets at any given moment, or what Chris would say in reply to an interviewer's question. And even after the last tour, after the last record -- all ended amicably when it became apparent that sales were simply not there to support things anymore -- the five of you, despite scattering across the country, still couldn't shake that.

In fact, two weeks after you moved to New York with Kelly and Brianna, you were back in Orlando begging JC to come with you. JC said he couldn't take New York, though: too crowded, too dirty, not enough fresh air for him. It physically hurt you to go back without him. Later, when Kelly gave you back the ring and told you she'd finally had enough of it all, you would recall the pain of leaving JC and think that the end of your marriage didn't hurt as much.

You and Kelly remained close, though; you couldn't help it, not with Brianna. And you'd always liked Kelly as a person and a friend, and it was easier when you weren't arguing about money and investments and why you were never home to look after your child. The fact that you were busy with this new stage in your career hadn't seemed to factor into her arguments. Eventually, things calmed down a little for you, and you bought a house and Kelly met a guy and then somehow you ended up with Brianna, which was the best thing you could imagine so you were happy.

And you still saw the others all the damn time, because Justin, despite living in Los Angeles with his new girlfriend, was in New York every week it seemed, recording or schmoozing or promoting some new project. He was in demand, sought after by every producer and artist for collaborations, songs, even choreography. You were inestimably proud of him; proud, too, that this new level of fame hadn't changed the humble Tennessee boy you remembered from years and years ago. Then there was JC, whose work either as a producer or as an artist in his own right -- though his music was more eclectic, sought after by a smaller and more intense fanbase -- often brought him up to New York, so you hardly ever had a chance to miss him. And even though Lance was settled firmly in Memphis, running FreeLance with an iron fist and happier behind the scenes than he'd ever been in the spotlight, he stayed in constant touch; if he couldn't talk, you often found unexpected gifts in the mail or in your dressing room at the theater -- Superman stuff, mostly, or weird cooking utensils, things he thought you might like. You tried to do the same for him, because it was fun to have him call you up and drawl, "What the fuck are you sending me _now_ , Fatone?"

Then there was Chris, who was trying new directions after Fumanskeeto had finally closed once and for all. Privately, you were glad; it meant the end of any contact with Dani, business or otherwise, and the way Dani had been treating Chris as things went downhill with Fuman was nothing less than abysmal. You remember drinking with him the night they formally went out of business, both of you raising a toast and then a finger in the general direction of LA.

Chris based himself out of New York, sharing your house for a couple of months until he found his own place, and soon found a market in more diverse graphics work, freelancing his designs for clothes, skate- and surfboards, just doing what made him happy. He wrote some songs, sang on a few things, contributed vocals on one of Justin's records, played guitar for a song on JC's first solo album. But he was restless, and you could tell that he wouldn't stay in one place for long. Eventually he went back down to Orlando to be with his family, and there was something going on with him and JC -- or so you thought; neither of them were open with you about it, but there was enough hemming and hawing that you had a suspicion.

And the months turned into years, and you had stuff going on with Kelly that kept you busy, and then with Brianna, and of course you were just working and working and having a blast. A first stab at Broadway, playing Mark in RENT, had gone startlingly well, and now with a free schedule, you did a Sondheim thing and then a revival of Anything Goes and then you didn't stop working for three years straight, doing movies in between the shows, even a pilot for a TV show. The show wasn't bought but you didn't care, you were having the time of your life. There was a thirtieth-birthday celebration that brought everyone together again, and for a week you all hung out and you thought in a satisfied way that the bonds were still there, could never be broken. More time went by, Justin's solo career growing beyond all expectations, Lance's businesses going in all different directions, JC's skills as a producer becoming legendary even as he grew more reclusive, accepting fewer and fewer jobs.

And then -- you remembered distinctly, it was exactly a month before your thirty-fourth birthday -- Chris disappeared.

JC called you, distraught, telling you that he'd packed up a bunch of shit on his bike and just left that morning, that Bev wouldn't say where he was going. You ended up taking some emergency time from the show and flying down to comfort JC, who was panicking. You knew that Chris would be all right. Chris could take care of himself. He'd always had an uncanny ability to do so. And, really, you knew that he needed it. After all the time together, he needed some time to himself again. You understood; it was one of the reasons you'd chosen to move back to New York after the breakup.

And yet despite all the time spent apart, having Chris around is so normal it's strange.

That's not to say you don't like it, though.

* * *

_4\. is it how you imagine_

 

Chris acts like nothing has changed, actually, bopping around the house as if he's lived there for years. It's natural and you know you could get used to it. You want to, even though you tell yourself you don't. Most of the time you firmly ignore the little voice whispering seductively in your ear about how nice it would be, having Chris and Brianna, just like a little family. But there never was a time for you and him; you both accepted that years ago.

Still, it's nice to pretend. When Chris makes breakfast and walks Brianna over to a friend's house, and the two of you spend the morning lounging around in robes on the couch watching television and reading the paper, it feels comfortable. You even dig out an old PlayStation II after the first week, just to see Chris's face light up.

The night before you're due to leave for Toronto, you're laying awake in bed, reading over some contracts, when a noise at the open door makes you look over. You're expecting it to be Brianna, so you're surprised to see Chris, in a pair of long silk pajama pants and a tee-shirt, fidgeting with the doorknob.

"Um," he says. You raise an eyebrow at him. "I was. Having some trouble sleeping."

"Something wrong?" you ask, sitting up and transferring your lapful of paperwork to the bedside table.

His face is dark, shuttered. "Just. I was thinking it might help if. You know, it used to, when we couldn't sleep and we'd all pile on each other or something and yeah I'll just go lay back down--"

"Come here," you say, pulling the covers back on the untouched side of the bed.

Chris jumps a little, but then he glides over, sitting and then putting his feet under the covers. He takes off his glasses, setting them down on the other nightstand, as you lean over and turn the light off.

In the darkness you can hear him breathing, shifting as he arranges the covers over himself. Before you really stop to think about what you're doing, you slide over, reaching for him, and tug him into a gentle embrace. He lays against you, one arm hesitant on your waist, breath shallow and fluttering on your collarbone.

"How's this?" you murmur.

"This's good." His voice is a bare whisper. The darkness is intimate, somehow, and you can feel the heat of him, the way he shivers a little, the tension held like a coil wound deep within. You rub his back, slowly, with a firm pressure, until his breathing slows and eases into relaxed rhythm.

* * *

_5\. world is spinning in your bed_

 

You have a habit of waking just before your alarm goes off, some weird tendency you developed in high school. This morning, as you rise from the depths of slumber, you feel warm and comfortable, completely at ease, and you're aware suddenly and surely that it has everything to do with Chris, who's spread across you like a blanket, his face buried in your neck.

Then the alarm goes off, shattering the morning's peace. The memory of Chris's trusting weight stays with you, though, etched into your skin like a tattoo for hours afterwards.

* * *

_6\. I know where the sun goes_

 

You call every night, when you can, to say goodnight to Brianna and hear about her day. She's having a great time with her uncle Chris, but when she emphatically adds, after describing her day, that she misses you and wants you to come home, you have to swallow the lump in your throat.

After you say goodnight to her, Chris takes over the phone and the two of you chat for a little while. Everything is going well, although he glosses over a slight kitchen accident that you gather involved a pot of soup spilled; overall, though, his voice makes you miss New York, your house, your daughter, him.

When the director cuts a scene that would have kept you one more day, you thank him, and grin at his surprise. You say your farewells to the cast and crew and leave a day early.

* * *

_7\. I have seen the world turning_

 

You get back late that night, and as you climb out of the cab, you notice that the garage light is on, shining under the door. Curious, you absently claim your suitcase and pay the fare, and then make your way up to the house.

"I'm home," you call as you swing the door open, but there's no response. You leave your bag in the hallway and head to the garage, from where you can hear Chris's voice, faint and muted.

The door is open; you pause in it and have to swallow. Chris is seated on his motorcycle, with Brianna before him, her pose mimicking his. He's describing -- in apparently some detail -- how to start the bike, and Brianna has her head turned to view what he's pointing out, her brow furrowed in concentration.

You back away from the door, your vision blurred, and go to the kitchen to get something to drink.

It's not long before Brianna comes in, shrieking "Daddy!" when she sees your bag, and leaps on you where you're seated in the den. Chris, behind her, looks a little embarrassed, so you're pretty sure he noticed that you saw them. You're too busy hugging your daughter to chastise him, though. Besides, it was cute, even though you have no plans to actually allow Brianna to drive a motorcycle until she's at least thirty.

* * *

_8\. now you know what you're missing_

 

As you're pulling your shirt off to get ready for bed, you hear a cough from the doorway, and you're somehow not surprised to see Chris there again.

"Well, come on," you say, and he climbs into bed while you're shucking out of your jeans. This time, it's more comfortable, easier, to curl together in the close darkness. Chris's cheek is on your shoulder, his breath on your neck, and you shiver a little. Your brain is apparently enjoying tormenting you with a memory of a similar moment that happened ten -- no, eleven years ago, some night in a hotel in, you think, Minnesota.

If Chris is remembering the same thing, he stays silent on the matter, and before long his breathing slows and evens out. It's a while before you fall asleep, but when you do, the last thing you're conscious of is the way his fingers are flexing, kneading, against your waist. Catlike.

* * *

_9\. if you look for the message_

 

JC had encouraged you for a long time to do something about your feelings for Chris. But there was always something -- someone, usually -- and you were hesitant to say anything when he seemed so damn happy with Dani. And then they had broken up and he was vulnerable, and that was the worst time you could think of to put the moves on your best friend. And too, you were getting more serious with Kelly. When she told you she was pregnant, via a phone call on the No Strings Attached tour -- you remembered vividly the hue of the walls in the Toy Room, an ugly pastel green, where you'd been sitting when your cell phone had gone off -- Chris had been the first to tell you how fantastic it was, how happy he was for the both of you.

You'd seen the artfully hidden hurt in his eyes. Just as carefully, you'd avoided mentioning it.

It was in Rio when you'd kissed him. He'd been sick the night before, after a combination of some weird food and too much alcohol, and he was mostly over it but still a little nervous and worried about the show, so you'd sent the others out of the dressing room and sat alone with him, rubbing his hand.

When he'd started babbling again for the nineteenth time about whether the Bee Gees medley would go off all right, you'd rolled your eyes and put a finger over his mouth to silence him. "It'll be all right," you'd said.

"But--" he said, eyes wide, and because you couldn't think of anything else to say to get him to calm down, you'd leaned forward and kissed him.

That had shut him up. Shut both of you up. You'd closed your eyes out of habit, but then the kiss didn't end, because his hands were clasping around your neck and yours were on his waist and oh God he tasted so good, he felt right against you, oh fuck he was in your lap and his tongue pressed against yours was nothing short of heavenly, just like that you were hard and arching up against him.

You broke apart at the same time, both of you gasping, hearts pumping, and adrenaline made your skin tingle. He hadn't said anything, just climbed out of your lap, somewhat lamely adjusting himself and you did the same and then wiped your mouth.

"It's not that I don't--" you'd started to say.

"I know, Joe." His voice was infinitely sad. "Believe me. I know."

You'd been relieved to hear Lance outside, calling that you had five minutes to get in your harnesses for the opening number. Chris went to the door as you stood, and his eyes, as he glanced back at you before going out, were black and bleak with a longing your own heart echoed.

And it had been worse, then, to know he felt the same way. Before, you'd been able to pretend that it was one-sided, and it hadn't hurt so much. But afterwards, you'd relived every moment, every lighthearted flirtation, the time in Minnesota when he'd crawled into bed and fallen asleep on you -- you'd thought it was just because he needed a warm body and missed Dani and now you had the horrid feeling that he was looking for the same thing you were.

* * *

_10\. and bends the shape of things to come_

 

After that, it starts to become regular. You get used to seeing Chris turn up in your doorway as you're getting ready for bed; it doesn't take long at all for you to expect it. You look forward to it, even, even as you tell yourself in sharp tones that you shouldn't get used to it. It'll be ephemeral at best. He'll get bored and move on or something.

So you're taking each moment as it comes, and savoring the nights most of all. Chris sinks easily against you, his weight solid and heavy and real, and his body fits well to yours. Often you talk about whatever's on your minds, sleepy chats about Brianna or the guys or the show you're in rehearsals for, and once he curls a leg over your thigh and shivering arousal awakens, uncoils, whispers through you.

Usually you fall asleep with him on his side against you. His cheek is pillowed on your collarbone, and you stay awake for a little while longer, idly stroking his soft hair, until you fall asleep yourself. You catch yourself entertaining idle fantasies of doing more -- kissing him, maybe, or pressing him back to the pillows and touching him -- but the fantasies tend to make it uncomfortable so you try to suppress them. Once in a while you roll over, spooning to his back, and you like that, too, blanketing him like you can keep him warm and safe in your arms.

You think that you'd die before you actually told him that.

* * *

_11\. colours changing like a lizard_

 

Chris brings Brianna to the show every now and then, and afterwards she tumbles into the dressing room to hug you and tell you how great you were, glowing with pride. One night there's a new figure behind them, and your heart squeezes when you realize it's JC. He looks a little sheepish, but you grab him and pull him into a hug, kissing his cheek, smearing stage makeup and he laughs, scrubbing at his cheek.

"You were supposed to let me know you were coming into town, dork," you inform him, swatting his shoulder.

He grins, hunching his shoulders. "Surprise?"

The four of you go back to your place, and once a very unhappy Brianna is tucked into bed -- Chris has to read her a whole chapter to pacify her -- you sit back with bottles of beer in the living room, grinning at each other. You feel a certain amount of satisfaction that Chris is sitting on the couch next to you, while JC, as skinny as ever, is curled languidly in the easy chair.

Conversation flows freely, as JC tells you about the new singer he's been working with. Chris teases him about the amount of time he spends lavishing compliments on the guy until JC goes bright red and hides his face behind his arms. It turns out the guy's here for a couple of gigs, part of the reason JC's in town, so you promise to see him on the show's off night.

Later, as you're making up the futon for JC, he tosses a pillow at you and asks you what's up with Chris.

"What?" you ask, genuinely confused.

"You and Chris. You're finally doing something about that, right?"

You turn away without answering, putting the pillow down and spreading out the blankets. "If you need anything else, there are more blankets in the hall closet -- you know where everything is--"

"*Joe*," JC says, taking you by the shoulders and sitting you down on the futon. "Joey. Seriously. You can see it in his eyes when he looks at you."

"We haven't talked about it," you mumble.

"Why not?"

His question is so simple, but you don't even know if you have an answer. There's so much, it's so big, that the thought of approaching it makes you tremble. Even though Chris sleeps in your arms every night and you trust him with your child.

Chris appears in the hallway entrance, then, hovering. "Um. You coming?" he asks you, his tone a trifle nervous. You glance up at him and nod, then stand, waiting until he's gone before looking back at JC.

JC's smirking at you, an eyebrow arched knowingly, and you shove at him. "Fuck off," you mutter. "He was having -- he didn't want to sleep alone."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Since before Toronto," you say, and JC's laughter follows you out into the hall.

* * *

_12\. and praise will come to those whose kindness leaves you without debt_

 

You're awkward as you climb into bed, and Chris notices it, tapping restless fingers on his knee as he watches you. Finally, once the lights are off and you've arranged yourselves around each other, he says, "So what is it?"

"What's what?" That's your pathetic attempt at obliviousness.

Chris snorts. "I know JC said something to you."

You close your eyes, forcing yourself to remain calm. You know JC's right -- you should talk to him -- but it seems like you've been suppressing this for so long that you're not even sure now if you can talk about it.

"He, uhh. He was making a big deal over the fact that we're. You know. Doing this."

"Sleeping together," Chris says, and there's no sexual connotation of any kind.

"Right." Your fingers are tangled in his soft hair. You don't want to move them.

"I don't see the big deal," Chris murmurs. Something relaxes deep inside you. "It's not like anything we haven't done before."

"Exactly," you agree, then feel compelled to add, "Although. This is the first time it's been on a regular basis."

He's quiet at that, and fear clenches in your gut. You can feel his hand on your waist, arm extended over your stomach, and his skin is hot.

"It's nice, though," he finally ventures in a near-whisper.

You kiss his forehead without thinking. "It is. Very nice."

* * *

_13\. close your eyes get so dizzy_

 

JC stays for a week, and you enjoy it: he and Chris conjure something warm, something of a past of being packed into a house in Orlando, of smelly tour buses in Europe, of relaxed togetherness, the kind only a family can feel. On Thursday night, the three of you go out to see JC's singer at a smoky little club in the Village. JC is enraptured, and Chris tries to make you a bet on how long it'll be before they wind up together, but you refuse; it's a sucker bet.

Afterwards, you play darts with Chris while JC talks in a dark corner with his singer, whose set was nothing short of triumphant. JC is right; the guy's going to set the world on fire. Chris gathers darts from the board, then comes over to where you're sitting, drapes his arms around your neck and hooks his sharp chin on your shoulder.

"Cute couple," he observes.

"Yep," you agree. He kisses you on the cheek and then offers your darts while you're still blinking at the casual display of affection.

* * *

_14\. now you've seen that I'm willing_

 

That night, when the lights are out, he mumbles into your neck, "You know I was, um, sorta with JC for a while, right?"

You nod. You're touching his back. His tee-shirt has ridden up an inch or so, and a stretch of bare skin sears your bare palm, so you're having a little difficulty focusing. "When you left here and went down to Orlando."

"It didn't. It didn't last very long." Chris's voice is hushed. It feels like a confession. His fingers move restlessly over your chest, picking at the hem of your shirt. "We were both kind of. I don't know. Lonely."

"It's OK," you say, because he's starting to sound a little panicked. "It's all right, Chris."

"Thought you'd be upset," he murmurs. "That's why we didn't say anything."

You look at him, the soft curve of his shoulder, dim in the glow of moonlight and streetlight through the blinds. "I was, a little," you admit. "When I figured it out. But then I got past it. And I thought, you know, if you were happy."

"Oh, Joey," he whispers, the timbre of his voice faint, distressed.

"It's OK," you say again, firmly. There's a gentle silence, then, just the paper-thin sound of his breathing; his hand has settled on your waist, fingertips just barely under your shirt's hem. You think you shouldn't be able to feel such a faint touch, and yet. You find your voice again. "All I've ever wanted, you know, is you to be happy."

"God," he breathes.

"Yeah?" you reply, and he cracks up, laughter bubbling on your collarbone.

"Ass," he says, smacking you on the hip.

You settle into silence for a little while, and you think he's asleep when you hear his voice again, fragile.

"I was looking for something," he says.

"Yeah?" you murmur. The conspiratorial, hushed tones in which you're speaking makes you feel as if you're teenagers, sharing secrets.

"It wasn't there." You feel him close his eyes, the subtle sweep of lashes against your skin. It makes your breath hitch.

There's silence again, and then you find the courage to say, "Have you found it yet?"

Chris's breathing is so faint that you would think he wasn't there if not for the contact of your arm over his back, the way you can feel his body heat through your fingertips, through his cotton shirt.

"I don't know," he says at last, more a mumble than words. "I. I don't know."

* * *

_15\. in England it's morning_

 

JC leaves a couple of days later; you see him off at the airport with the singer, sharing hugs all around before they board. Afterwards, as you're heading back through the terminal, Chris jumps on your back and loops his arms around your neck. Laughing, you carry him out to the car.

"Let's go out to eat," he says, so you swing back to pick up Brianna from her friend's house and then hit your favorite Italian restaurant. The waitress flirts with Chris and is sweet with Brianna, and you find yourself oddly jealous when Chris bats his eyelashes at her in return. But then she leaves and Chris does the same thing to Brianna, mimicking her ruthlessly, and you breathe a relieved sigh.

Brianna insists on the zoo after that, even though you've been a thousand times, but Chris is even more helpless to resist her than you are. So she drags him around to all her favorite exhibits, and three hours later all three of you are panting and bedraggled from stumbling around in the hot sun, and when you suggest going back to the house to collapse, it sounds like the best idea ever.

You take a shower and then wander into your bedroom, wrapped in a towel, to find Chris sprawled out on your bed. A sudden pang hits you when you think that he looks like he belongs there.

"Where's Brianna?" you ask.

"She's playing Final Fantasy X downstairs." He grins at you and you laugh; trust Chris to get her hooked on a game that's as old as she is. "Come here," he invites, reaching his arms out to you.

It's so natural that you don't even consider doing anything else. You cross to the bed, kneeling on it, and he pulls you down, more or less on top of him. He hasn't showered yet, but you don't mind; you like the hot sweaty smell of him. It reminds you of a thousand concerts, workouts, practice sessions, dance rehearsals, times when you were never apart from him.

"So, uh," he says. His face is close to yours, and when his tongue darts out to lick his lips, you register its gleaming wetness. "I was kind of thinking."

"Yeah?" You find it hard to speak, pressed to him like this, able to feel the lithe length of his body shift and move beneath you. "What were you thinking?"

Chris reaches up, his fingers trembling, and touches the edge of your eyebrow. His skin is cool, and yet somehow the caress burns, sinking like wildfire into you as he traces a shaking line down your cheek, along your jaw. "I was thinking," he whispers, "that you could kiss me."

Once upon a time, you would have had a million objections. Right now, you can't think of one. You're so close that his breath flutters on your lips.

"Chris," you say, and then he lifts his head and you lower your mouth and he's there, his mouth against yours, moving slow and patient, kissing you as if you had all the time in the world. And suddenly you think that maybe you do.

When his lips open, you delve in, tasting him, and it's just as sweet as you remember, hot and damp, his tongue gliding urgently against yours. You realize that you're making little sounds, sort of like whimpers, and he is, too, and you end the kiss with a last parting sigh.

There's moisture at the corner of his eye. You brush a thumb over it, and he blinks hard and then smiles up at you.

"Was that." You're not sure what to say. "Was that what you were thinking about?"

He nods, swallowing. You don't think you can breathe right now, looking into his eyes, his dark and liquid and endless gaze. Then he wriggles a little, and you realize that you're hard. Both of you are.

"We should," he says.

You nod, pressing your lips together. Brianna could come upstairs at any moment, and you remember what a shock it was to see your parents kissing in any way more intimate than a peck on the cheek. But you don't want to move. To move means you'd have to slip away from Chris's heat, and right now you're not sure you can live without it.

"Come on, Fatone, you can do it," he says, and slaps your ass. That breaks the mood; chuckling weakly, you get up, gathering your towel to make sure it doesn't slide off your hips. Your legs are distinctly wobbly when you stand again, and he's flushed and jittery as he heads out of the room, babbling that he's going to take a shower and then make dinner, so you can just relax and don't worry about a thing, Joe.

You get dressed, zipping jeans up somewhat painfully over your erection, and wonder idly why Chris suddenly wanted a kiss. Not that you mind. You've certainly spent a good amount of his visit thinking about the taste of his lips, the warmth of his skin under your hands. And after the conversation the other night, you think the two of you are starting to get closer to the core of things.

And there are other ways than just talking to get to the center of things, you think, and smile.

* * *

_16\. and bends the shape of things to come that haven't happened yet_

 

Brianna keeps Chris up until far too late with questions about getting through the section of the game she's currently stuck on, but finally you nudge Chris and tell him to get her to a save point, as it's past her bedtime. He glances up at you, an eyebrow raised, and you grin at him.

He joins you in the kitchen, where you're putting away some dishes. His arms slide around your waist and the soft heat of his cheek warms your spine between your shoulderblades. "She's finishing up now," he says quietly.

"OK. Thanks," you say.

"Don't have to thank me." He plants a gentle kiss on your spine and your skin shivers all the way down to your toes. "I like taking care of her. You know that."

You find an impulsive request bubbling to your lips, and struggle to force it down. Fortunately, Brianna comes into the kitchen to say goodnight, and Chris breaks away from you and you're grateful for the interruption. You're starting to become acutely aware of him. Not that you weren't before, but now it's like you can raise your head and tell where he is, no matter where in the house you are in relation.

Brianna collects her kisses, and then gives you a serious, odd look before heading upstairs to get ready for bed. Chris laughs hollowly once she's gone. "Too close, man."

You close the cabinet doors for something to do. "I, yeah. Don't want her seeing that just yet."

"No." Chris shakes his head, glancing out the window at the dark backyard. "Not yet." He turns towards the stairs, and something moves you to take the few steps across the kitchen before he can leave.

He glances up as your hand curves around his bicep; one eyebrow rises. "Yeah, Fatone?"

"It's not because I don't want her to know that I love you," you say all at once. He goes pale, and then you suck in a breath because you said it, you didn't mean to but you did, and it's out there now and you can't take it back, thank God.

"Joe," he says, eyes stunned and flat.

You figure it isn't anything you don't both already know. Have known for years. So you keep going. "I just want to take it slow with her. Let her get used to it." And you realize you're talking long-term and that it could scare Chris off, and you send up a silent prayer and let go of his arm.

But he nods instead of backing away from you; he nods, rests a hand on your forearm. "I understand," he says. "I'm gonna go. Tuck her in."

When he turns and heads up the stairs, it doesn't feel like a retreat, and you breathe out slowly, the ache in your gut gradually unclenching.

* * *

_17\. in time you'll recognise that love is larger than life_

 

In fact, it's a relief when you climb the stairs and hear him saying goodnight to Brianna. You pause at the door as he gets up, bending over to kiss her forehead, and he smiles at you as he comes out and slips into his own room, as per routine.

You sit down on the bed, picking up one of Brianna's favorite stuffed animals -- an ancient, but well-preserved Sully doll, its fur still soft -- and set it in your lap. "You like having Chris here, huh?" you ask her.

"Duh." She rolls her eyes expressively. "I wish he didn't have to leave."

"Me, too." But it's the beginning of August. Brianna's due to visit her grandparents for two weeks at the end of the month, and Chris has been saying he'd be gone after that.

"Dad?" She looks up at you, and for a moment her eyes are as dark as Chris's. "You like him, huh?"

You're surprised at her instincts. Then again, you think, she's always been perceptive. "Yeah," you admit quietly. "Maybe more than like."

Her lower lip catches in her teeth for a moment, and then she sits up and puts her arms around you. "I love you," she whispers suddenly and fervently, and your breath catches as you hold her.

"Love you, baby," you tell her, and as she lays back, you brush her hair out of her face. Her hair is mostly tame, kept in braids for the night, but wisps always get away somehow and soften the smooth oval of her face.

"Do you want him to be your boyfriend?" she says suddenly.

You choke, not sure whether to laugh or scold her. You nod instead, and she grins back at you, a smile that mirrors your own. "I wouldn't mind," she informs you, seriously. "You know. If you were waiting on me or something."

"Oh, Bree." You lean down and kiss her forehead. "Go to sleep, baby." She takes the Sully doll and closes her eyes obediently, and you turn off the light, strangely reluctant to leave her.

Chris is in your bedroom, though, sitting on the bed and fidgeting the ties of his pajama pants. He looks up, giving you a weak smile, and you sit down next to him and bump his shoulder. He bumps you back automatically.

"I heard you and Brianna," he mumbles.

You feel your cheeks heat up. "Yeah?" you say, staring at your knees.

"Yeah. She's, uh. She's a smart kid."

"Gets it from her mom," you say, and he slaps your shoulder in an automatic gesture. "Why don't, uh. Why don't we lay down?"

Chris turns to you instead, folding one leg under him on the bed. He looks small, and while he's rested and healthy in appearance, something about his demeanor is nervous. His hands reach for yours; you let him take them, fingers threading together in his lap. "We should talk," he says.

You swallow and nod. "Right. Talk."

His thumb traces circles on your palm. "I've. I've loved you for a really long time, Joey," he says, and your throat closes against the immediate emotional reaction. "It's kind of hard to remember a time when I didn't have these feelings for you. It's like. Half my life, now, I've been in love with you. And it hasn't mattered where I've gone, or how far we've been apart, it's never stopped."

He's been looking down at your joined hands, his eyes dark under the heavy fringe of lashes, but now he looks up at you, taking a breath. "I'm scared," he admits. "Of it changing. Because. What if it goes wrong, you know? I don't exactly have a great average when it comes to relationships. And if I wound up hating you, or something, I wouldn't be able to stand it."

You open your mouth to speak, but he shakes his head, murmuring, "Not done yet," and you close it again. "I guess that's the main thing, really. I'd rather live the rest of my life loving you and never having you than have you for a little while and then lose you, lose these feelings."

You're shaking now, and the only response you can muster is to lean forward and take him in your arms. His body trembles, too; you rub his back with one soothing hand, breathing into his neck until it seems to mostly pass.

"I don't know," you say into his skin. "I almost feel like. Like I've held it in for so long that once I open it up I won't be able to close it again. I want it," and at that he makes a little shuddering sound against your shoulder. "I want it so much, Chris. And I've always been afraid that if I pushed too far or showed you how much I wanted it, you'd run. That it would be too much for you. So I. I let you go."

He pulls away from you, then, his eyebrows drawn together. "Let me go?"

"When you went back to Orlando, when you got together with C?" you clarify. "And then when you left. I was going to go after you, but. I kind of. I knew you'd come back." You look down at the space of bed between the two of you, your hand moving to pick at a loose thread. "I just hoped you'd come back to me."

Chris makes that hitching sound again and you realize it's a sob. You curve your fingers under his chin and lift his face to yours, kissing him; in another moment he's clinging to you, climbing into your lap, and then nothing else matters but the feel of his body against yours.

Afterwards, in the darkness, he breathes quietly against your shoulder, draws patterns on your lower back with his fingers. You settle yourself a little more comfortably atop him and sigh contentedly.

"Stay," you murmur into his ear.

"I have to," he says, and he sounds almost resigned. You raise your head to blink at him. "I can't leave," he clarifies, as if talking to a child. "You're laying on me."

You laugh and kiss him again, and say, "If that's all it takes, I'm never moving again."

"Fine with me." He wriggles pleasantly under you, and your grin, you think, is bright enough to light up the room.


End file.
